Time moves differently when you are building an empire.

  ?Three months had passed since Julian sold his first asset pack. The winter snow had melted, and with it, the quiet days of the small workshop were gone. In their place stood the sprawling, noisy complex of Sector 4. The startup phase was over; the era of mass production had begun.

  ?(Horizontal Line )

  The rhythm of Sector 4 was hypnotic. *CLANG-HISS. CLANG-HISS.*

  Julian stood on the catwalk overlooking his creation. The new stamping press—a massive beast of iron and hydraulics derived from the System’s blueprints—was churning out steel plates for the new housing project. It was beautiful. It was efficient. It was printing gold.

  "Output is up 15%," Tibs reported, holding a clipboard. The goblin foreman looked exhausted, his eyes red-rimmed, but he was grinning. "The boys are pulling double shifts. They want that overtime pay, Boss."

  "Make sure they rotate," Julian said, checking his watch. "Fatigue causes errors. And errors cost money."

  "They're fine," Tibs waved a hand. "Goblins are tough. We used to work in the mines for 20 hours a day for a copper coin. This is paradise."

  Julian nodded, but a strange unease settled in his stomach. He looked down at the line.A young human worker—maybe sixteen, a refugee from the north—was feeding metal sheets into the press. He looked tired. He stumbled slightly, reaching in to clear a jam without stopping the machine.

  "Hey!" Julian shouted, leaning over the rail. "Stop the machine! Use the safety stick!"

  It was too late.

  *CRUNCH.*

  The sound wasn't loud. It was a wet, sickening snap that cut through the mechanical roar.Then came the scream.

  "MY HAND! OH GODS, MY HAND!"

  The factory floor froze. The rhythmic *CLANG-HISS* stopped as someone slammed the emergency brake.Julian didn't think. He vaulted over the railing, sliding down the ladder and sprinting toward the press.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The boy was on the ground, clutching a mangled, bloody mess that used to be his right hand. His face was pale, his eyes wide with shock and pain."I... I just wanted to clear the jam..." the boy sobbed, looking at Julian with terror. "Please don't fire me, Count! I can still work! I have another hand!"

  Julian felt a cold bucket of ice water dump over his soul.*Please don't fire me.*That was the boy's first thought. Not his hand. Not his life. But his job.

  "Get a medic!" Julian roared, his voice cracking. He ripped off his expensive suit jacket and wrapped it tightly around the boy's arm to stem the bleeding. "Tibs! Get the Resonance Healer! NOW!"

  "B-but Boss," Tibs stammered, looking at the blood on the machine. "The production quota... if we stop now, the metal will cool..."

  "Fuck the quota!" Julian snarled, his eyes blazing with a fury Tibs had never seen. "Shut it down! Shut it all down!"

  Two Hours Later. The Clinic.

  The boy was stable. The Healer said he would keep the arm, but the fingers were gone.Julian sat on a wooden bench outside the ward. His shirt was stained with blood. He held an unlit cigarette in his trembling hand.

  "It wasn't your fault," Amelia sat down next to him. "He violated protocol. You told them to use the stick."

  "Did I?" Julian looked at her. "I told *Tibs*. Did Tibs tell him? Did I check? Or was I too busy looking at the profit margins?"

  He lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply. The smoke tasted bitter."In my world... back home... we had laws. OSHA. Safety inspections. Red tape. I used to hate them. I thought they slowed down progress."

  He looked at his bloodstained hands."Now I know why they exist. Regulations are written in blood, Amelia."

  "What are you going to do?" she asked.

  Julian stood up. The arrogance of the 'Industrial Genius' was gone. In its place was something harder, colder, but more human.

  "We are changing the rules," Julian said. "Starting tomorrow, we implement mandatory safety training. Shifts are capped at 8 hours. No exceptions."

  "That will cut our production by 30%," Amelia warned. "The investors... the Guild... they won't like it."

  "They can complain to me," Julian crushed the cigarette under his boot. "I'm not building a slaughterhouse. I'm building a future. And there's no future if I grind my people into paste."

  He walked back toward the factory, where the machines stood silent in the dark.For the first time, Julian didn't see them as glorious inventions. He saw them as hungry beasts that needed to be tamed.

  "Mark," Julian whispered to the air.

  "Yes, Maker?"

  "Draft a new blueprint," Julian said softly. "Not a weapon. Not a machine."

  "What is the target?"

  "Project: Worker's Comp." Julian said. "We're going to build a social safety net."